Chapter II · 10

Adolescent ardor, glazes and caresses; how tremulous would she be in mine arms, my sweet beloved, bestowing upon me with her eyes sacred light, with her floral scent divine sap. In the alcove the lamp shedding its opaline light; nought being heard save sighs, echoes, laughter; the sound of kisses; the triumphant music of my rhymes, and in the dark, nearby hearth the glowing log bursting into sparks. Within, love that burns; without, the cold night.

AUTUMN THOUGHTS

(After Armand Silvestre.)

The year flees to its close like a passing brook, bearing from the West pale and fleeting light. And even as the bird that sadly spreads its wing, the flight of memory launched into space languishes in the immense azure through which it wanders. The year flees to its close like a passing brook.

Something of soul still wanders through the dead chalices of the delicate afternoons and the trembling rosebushes. And from distant lights to the deep firmament, upon the wings of perfume a dream still ascends. Something of soul still wanders through the dead chalices.

A song of farewell the turbid springs feign. If it please thee, my love, let us return to the path that yonder in springtime we both, hands clasped, followed, drunken with love and tenderness, along the pleasant paths where their boughs swing in fragrant avenues perfumed by the blossoms. A song of farewell the turbid springs feign.

A hymn of love bursts from my burning breast, which in eternal, fertile April of youth blooms forth. Let the fair days die in good season! Let winter arrive once more; let it be reborn harsh and strong. Amidst the wind’s lament, like a magical, joyous hymn, a hymn of love bursts from my burning breast.

A hymn of love to thy sacred beauty, woman, eternal summer, immortal springtime! Sister of the fiery orb that through immensity in every season pours, fertile without end, from its resplendent light the golden torrent. A hymn of love to thy sacred beauty, woman, eternal summer, immortal springtime!

TO A POET

Nought is sadder than a titan who weeps— a mountain-man enchained to a lily, who groans, though strong, who pleads, though mighty: his own victim in his fatal martyrdom.

Mad Hercules who at Omphale’s feet casts down the club and shuns the fray, a hero who dons a maiden’s sandal, a bard who forgets the vibrant muse.

He who wrenched the jaws of sturdy lions, spinning a thrall with the feeble distaff; without toil, without drive, without deed: iron fists and rugged wrist!

Such a poet is not made to tread carpets where womanly dances triumph: let him vibrate thunderbolts to strike the shadows, let him write verses resembling spears.

Let the proud stanza flash, leaving its furrow of resplendent fire; and the mire of scandal and mockery, let not the eagle behold it from its peak.

A valiant soldier in his golden helm, let him hurl the dart that burns and rends; let him charge roughly as charges the bull, let him sink his claws firm, like the lion.

Let him sing brave and in singing labor; let him offer oaks if he deems himself mountain; let his thought crash and sever through evil as through the virgin jungle the bison.

Let whatever the inspired mouth proclaims resound among the people with strange speech: sound of billows lashing the rock, voice of cavern and gust of mountain.

Let Samson quit Delilah’s lap: Delilah deceives and shears the locks. Let not the strong man lose the lightning of his arm for being the slave of lovely eyes.

ANANKE

And said the dove: “I am happy. Beneath the immense sky, upon the blossoming tree, beside the fruit filled with honey, beside the soft shoot moist with drops of dew, I have my home. And I fly with my bird’s longings, from mine own beloved tree unto the distant wood, when to the jocund hymn of the Orient’s awakening naked dawn goes forth, and shows the world the modesty of light upon her brow. My wing is white and silken; the light gilds and bathes it and the zephyr preens it. My feet are like petals of a rose. I am the sweet queen who coos to her mate upon the mountain. In the depths of the picturesque forest is the larch whereon I formed my nest; and there I have, beneath the fresh foliage, a peerless nestling, newly born. I am the winged promise, the living vow; I am she who bears the memory of the beloved unto the pensive lover; I am the messenger of sorrowful and fervent dreamers, who flutters recounting love beside a perfumed head of hair. I am the lily of the wind. Beneath the azure of the deep firmament I display of my fair and rich treasure the gems and array: the cooing in the beak, the caress in the wings. I awaken the chattering birds and they sound their melodious songs: I alight upon the flowering lemon trees and scatter a shower of orange blossoms. I am all innocent, all pure. I ruffle in the yearnings of desire, and I quiver in the intimate tenderness of a touch, of a murmur, of a fluttering wing. Oh, immense azure! I love thee. For to Flora thou givest the rain and the ever-kindled sun: for, being the palace of the dawn, thou art also the roof of my nest. Oh, immense azure! I adore thy smiling cloudscapes, and that subtle mist of golden dust whither go perfumes and dreams. I love the tenuous, wandering veils of the floating mists, wherein I spread to the affectionate breezes the silken fan of my plumes. I am happy! For mine is the woodland wherein lies the mystery of nests; for the dawn is my festival and love my practice and my battle. Happy, for filled with sweet longings to warm my fledglings is my pride, for in the virgin jungles resounds the celestial music of my cooing, for there is no rose that loves me not, nor gentle bird that hears me not, nor gallant singer that calls me not.” “Indeed?” said then an infamous hawk, and with fury shoved her into his crop. Then the good Lord, yonder upon his throne (while Satan, to divert his malice, applauded that untamed bird), fell to musing. He knitted his brow, and reflected, remembering his vast designs and reviewing his points and commas, that when he created doves he ought not to have created hawks.

like a red rose that were a fleur-de-lis; she opens her eyes; gazes upon me with her smiling look, while the snow falls from the sky of Paris.

SONNETS

CAUPOLICÁN

To Enrique Hernández Miyares.

A formidable thing it was that the ancient race beheld: a sturdy tree trunk upon the shoulder of a champion savage and battle-hardened, whose brawny club the arm of Hercules or the arm of Samson might wield.

His hair for helmet, his chest for cuirass, such a warrior might well, in Arauco’s domain— a spearman of the forests, a Nimrod hunting all— hamstring a bull or throttle a lion.

He strode, strode, strode. The daylight beheld him, the pale evening beheld him, the cold night beheld him, and ever the tree trunk upon the titan’s shoulders.

“The Toqui! The Toqui!” cries the stirred clan. He strode, strode, strode. The Dawn cried: “Enough!” and erect rose the lofty brow of great Caupolicán.

VENUS

In the tranquil night, I suffered my bitter nostalgiæ. In search of quiet I descended into the cool and silent garden. In the dark sky fair Venus trembled and shone, like a golden and divine jasmine inlaid in ebony.

To my enamored soul, an Eastern queen she seemed, who awaited her lover beneath the canopy of her boudoir, or who, borne upon shoulders, traversed the deep expanse, triumphant and luminous, reclining upon a palanquin.

“Oh, golden queen!” I told her, “my soul longs to quit its chrysalis and fly toward thee, and kiss thy lips of fire; and float in the halo that sheds pale light upon thy brow,

and in sidereal ecstasies cease not a moment from loving thee.” The night breeze cooled the warm air. Venus, from the abyss, looked down upon me with a mournful gaze.

IN WINTER

In winter hours, look upon Carolina. Half-curled up, she rests in the armchair, wrapped in her coat of sable and not far from the fire glowing in the salon.

The sleek white angora reclines beside her, brushing with its muzzle the Alençon skirt, not far from the jars of Chinese porcelain that a screen of Japanese silk half conceals.

With its subtle philtres a sweet slumber overcomes her; I enter noiselessly; I lay aside my grey coat; I go to kiss her face, rosy and winning,

like a red rose that were a fleur-de-lis; she opens her eyes; gazes upon me with her smiling look, while the snow falls from the sky of Paris.

His bird is the Venusian, the timid dove. He would have conquered in Greece, conquered in Rome, in every contest of art or of love.

MEDALLIONS